Diplomacy of the Finest Kind
by gelfling
Summary: A possible outcome if the Shinra/Wutai interaction had taken place in a medieval time period, before technology or any of that good stuff. Wutai shows off for ShinRa, who turns tries to figure out how to kill everyone. Light Seph/Gen, one-shot.


**Diplomacy of the Finest Kind**  
gelfling  
PG-13  
**Prompt** (for areyougame on InsaneJournal): **Final Fantasy VII: Crisis Core** Genesis / Sephiroth: dancing-slave AU - _The albino they'd captured had been well trained, certainly, but no one would mistake the creature for well tamed; he wondered whether the slave would respond better to gentleness, or to a firm hand on the leash._

Defend me from my friends; I can defend myself from my enemies.  
- Marchal Villars

****

After the first half-hour, Genesis decided, the Wutainese 'entertainment' consisted _entirely_ too much of bells, ribbon, and group acrobatics. The acts were better suited for a circus than a royal performance before Midgar's lord, but Genesis wasn't about to be so tactless to say that out loud—except to Angeal, who didn't count and only rolled his eyes before going back to watching everyone very, very closely.

Genesis couldn't really fault him—these were diplomatic times, after all. Midgar's lord—Lord Shinra—had been on a rather ambitious and successful expansion, swallowing other city-states and territories like North Corel and Junon without so much as a hiccup, until the Wutai Incident.

It was true, Lord Shinra had the best soldiers and weapons that gold could attract—Genesis and Angeal were testament to that—but Wutai had magic rocks. _Secret_ magic rocks, that the world had more or less known about, but never really understood. Even Lord Shinra had been persuaded that strongest soldier, equipped with the finest steel sword and iron armor, didn't stand much of a chance against a 30 foot flaming monsters, unless the desired end result was a cannibalistic baked meat potato.

That Wutai had boatloads of heretical magicians and freaks was common knowledge—that Wutai had materia, and what it could do on the battlefield, was not.

Thus came about the diplomatic talks, and sharing of cultures.

The fireplace roared in the corner of Shinra's Hall, throwing strange shadows against the Wutainese dancer's stranger shadows, bells and tambourines jingling against the constant chatter—mostly in Visgardian, thankfully. Only Reeve could speak passable Wutainese, and while Genesis could _claim_ to read it, it helped if it nothing more complicated than a menu or scroll of poetry. Genesis shifted uneasily in his lord's fortress, too restless to bother hiding how restless he felt. Being a bodyguard wasn't very fulfilling if no one was trying to kill someone else, but as two his army's best, their Lord Shinra wouldn't allow either Angeal or Genesis to budge from their positions on either side of his throne.

Then the Hall fell silent—or at least, the Wutainese performers suddenly stopped and swung back to kneel amongst their own with eerie coordination, vibrant blue silk and gold bangles rattling still, though Genesis hadn't seen a signal for them to do so. The Wutainese ambassadors—a slimy-looking man and a stoic, expressionless block of wood—and retinue sat serenely, with their hands in their laps while their Midgar counterparts shifted and coughed deliberately, before also hushing with confused and embarrassed looks.

Genesis wasn't quite sure when he'd put his hand on his sword, but he didn't need to look to know that Angeal was already prepared to attack.

The slight movement of a tall woman walking—no, stalking forward from the depths of the Wutainese camp was the only thing to catch his eye, aside from the fire.

When the woman finally stopped a few feet from their lord—and thus, Angeal and Genesis—it became apparent that the woman was actually a very tall, very slim young man, dressed in simple black robes, waist-length white hair—white? Dyed? A wig! An old woman's wig! Ha!—and armed with a simple-looking sword, held more diplomatically than Genesis' or Angeal's.

There was no introduction. He nodded once to Lord Shinra, before beginning to dance.

His parents had been thoroughly ambitious enough to ensure that Genesis knew how to dance, as he would need to find a wife (of the right family and breeding and money, oh certainly the right amount of money) after his military career, so through an unfortunately long period of his adolescence, Genesis had learned to dance, as proper men and women did.

Once in the military, he'd been ambitious enough to find out how men and women danced improperly, indecently, and nude (or quickly becoming so).

Even so, there was no real way of…describing what the boy did. The young man.

In elegant, bird-like feints and dashes the black silken robes flitted leisurely between the Wutai martial stances, measured half-turns and somersaults of the acrobats and—after the young man drew his sword—a gliding, graceful demonstration of Midgar's basic katas and sword drills.

From the hushed ranks of the Wutai performers, a girl—he couldn't see who—had begun to sing quietly and without words, voice somber and occasionally falling silent altogether, before picking up again. The song—melody? Lullaby?—didn't completely match with the dancer's movements, either hitting or missing entirely the crescendos or lulls in the dance.

It was at that point that the young man, long white hair trailing and snapping around him like snow in a breeze, began to adjust his movements into what Genesis would have politely termed 'improper dancing'. The strength and grace was still there, though slowed down as the man's back nearly touched the flagstones while the sword spun from one hand to the other, almost seeming to pull the man _up_ as the tip swung towards the ceiling before disappearing behind his back to leap over his shoulder and back in his hand.

While Genesis had done several variations of dancing with people—often naked—and fighting—or showing off—with swordplay, it had never occurred to him that one could do all that while _short_ another human body, and treat the sword as both a weapon, an enemy, and a lover. The metal in his hand held all of the young man's attention, that much was clear—he never acknowledged his audience, never crossed eyes with another in the crowd, even though he clearly held every eye in the room. The man could have been alone, practicing a very detailed and irregular sword drill—though Genesis caught the small details in the man's footwork and wrists as he switched hands that spoke of professional mastery.

It was…vaguely disturbing to watch, though he wouldn't be able to put his finger on why that was so until hours later, anymore than he could stop watching, heart racing, skin flushed, and completely entranced.

Still, he was moderately pleased—and vaguely wondering if Angeal and he would get into trouble for it—when the tips of both their swords touched the Wutainese's neck when he stopped abruptly in front of Lord Shinra, sword point a hair's breath away from the old man's goblet.

It was a diplomatic function, but they obviously couldn't just let _anyone_ raise a sword—however artistically—against their lord. It wouldn't look right.

A simple striptease might have been enough to distract the crowd—minus the actual stripping, unfortunately, as the boy was remarkably gorgeous—but as the Lord's guards, they had higher standards to adhere to. Genesis tried to ignore the fact that—give or take a few moments—the boy could have killed Shinra before they had reacted.

The young man solved the dilemma by dropping to one knee, sword cycling soundlessly along the flat of his palm so it was the hilt, not the blade, that now faced Shinra. The hilt that, after a few long and awkward moments, Shinra clearly wasn't going to take, anymore than Genesis or Angeal were going to lower their swords.

From across the room, Genesis could feel the Wutai ambassadors watching the tableau keenly.

"Ah," Scarlet let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh from Shinra's left, leaning over and forward. "How very, very kind. And quite the presentation! I'll just, just take this, to hold on to for now, if," Scarlet tugged and wrenched on the hilt, "the young man wouldn't mind letting _go_."

"It's all right," the Wutainese ambassador—the slimy one—said in a high pitched, smirking tone. "It's not actually his—you can take it."

The man's words seemed to be meant for Scarlet—and even Genesis, who tried to keep track of the court, had lost track of exactly what her position was—but it was the young man who reacted to them, standing to attention smartly, light green eyes staring at nothing and no one, before striding back to the Wutainese table after a sharp bow towards Shinra. Another Wutainese boy with dark, spiky hair grinned widely when the dancer sat next to him, before the dark haired boy winked at Genesis and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

By degrees, Genesis lowered his sword.

Over the roaring in his ears, Genesis was vaguely aware that diplomatic intercourse had resumed once again, awkward laughs and insincere apologies and appeals to reason and tranquility and all that other garbage the court always went on about before ordering him to cut some bastard's head off. Genesis' body unconsciously sheathed his sword even though he really hadn't registered Scarlet's hissed order.

The dancer had never glanced once at Genesis, or Angeal, even though it'd been their swords at his throat.

Genesis stared.

Never.

They could've—Genesis could've killed him! Should've killed! The little brat, drawing a sword, _flaunting_ a sword a diplomatic function!

"Hey. _Hey_. Gen."

He'd known foreigners to be mad, but to be so suicidal, so arrogant to not even--

"_Genesis_." It was Angeal, whispering from the corner of his mouth as the evening wound down and pleasantries were said before everyone was shuffled off to bed—or at least, someone's bed. "You're staring."

"I think," Genesis began, but did not finish. "I'm."

"Gen. Are you ok? You're…flushed."

Flushed didn't really cover what he was feeling, but this wasn't the time and place to go into it; once he acknowledged what this _was_, he wouldn't be able to ignore it anymore, not even for diplomacy and dignity's sake. He went through the rest of the evening by rote while his mind drowned in a meaningless buzzing white fizz.

He'd meant to find a woman for the evening—or morning, it was too late to still be evening—but Angeal had more or less manhandled him into Angeal's own quarters, which turned out to be for the best. He could breathe, if it was just Angeal in the room—if he'd gone after a stranger like he'd intended, he'd still be wound up and pulled tight, even after sex. As an unintended plus, it was easier to lie about bruises and cuts on a man than it was on a woman—Genesis hadn't planned to be rough, but couldn't have stopped it from being any other way.

"So," Angeal's breath ghosted against his cheek. "Feel better?"

"Did you see him?"

Angeal smirked in the darkness. "I think so—I got a bit distracted when a fly landed on your nose, but I'm pretty sure—"

"He was like a doll," Genesis interrupted, finally put words on the nagging feeling. His mind was still fizzing, thinking over the blank mask and eyes, half-wondering if the dancer was sleepwalking or dreaming awake. Wondering what the dancer was like when awake, or if the dancer ever truly woke. "Like a…a toy. Like in the stories, when the doll comes to life, but it's still a doll. The way he moved."

Angeal said nothing. He'd been expecting something less philosophical in nature and considerably more aggressive or sexual or both, but he had to admit, he'd noticed it as well.

"Goddess," Genesis' breath brushed against Angeal's collarbone, relaxing further as Angeal stroked his arm. "I wonder what he's like in bed?" Probably a terrible bore, but he wasn't quite ready to mention that to Angeal just yet.

Angeal groaned, entirely unsurprised.

***  
A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.  
--Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk

***  
A/N: I fear I've made Genesis OCC. Guh.


End file.
